


We All Get Better

by Inconspicuous_Honeybee



Category: Original Work
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Emotional, Free Verse, Gen, Poetry, personal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:40:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27664165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inconspicuous_Honeybee/pseuds/Inconspicuous_Honeybee
Summary: Just a collection of poetry I’ve written to sort out my feelings on things.I’m totally open to comments and analysis, btw. I wouldn’t be posting it if I weren’t okay with people reading it and talking about it.





	1. Soil

This garden is not home to me.  
The vines snare and entangle  
Choke and smother  
They were here long before I was.

Only the harsh and fast growing survive  
They pierce the greenery  
Struggling for resources  
I am not like that.

The garden soul cannot nourish me.  
No sunlight reaches here beneath the kudzu  
Invasions leech away my water  
I decay beneath the blankets of green.

Cruel crimson briars  
Pierce and shred new leaves  
Preventing growth

Fire is my respite.  
Destruction my salvation.

In its wake is quiet  
The aftermath resulting in a richer soul

Sunlight warms the frigid earth  
Melting away the frost  
I grow

By next spring I am stronger  
The year after I am taller  
By the next my branches reach wider  
As time passes I feed the soil  
I heal

Flowers bloom beneath me  
Moss and bushes sprout  
Other trees take root around me  
Birds and insects come and go  
Leaving things from distant lands  
Seeds from other gardens  
Plunge themselves into the ground  
Growing in the dark earth  
They feed the soil too  
We grow together

My branches now encompass much space  
I’ve flourished and thrived  
And so too others thrive around me  
The soil is still exposed to the sky

Gone is the need for fire  
Purged are the days of loneliness  
Survival is not a question.  
This garden feels like home.


	2. Memories

The person I used to be is dead.

They are gone, a phantom that exists only in faded memories of Me.

They are gone.

I know this because I killed them.

  
They kept going so that I maybe have a chance to exist.

And now their head, formerly filled with math equations and misery, has been laid to rest.

And in their place I stand!

A monument to their memory

A love letter to their existence

Because I am everything they had ever wanted to be

and so much more


End file.
